


I Can't Wait 'Til Then

by Captain_Ameriyeah



Series: Song Fics [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a song, Established Relationship, Hurt Illya, M/M, Napoleon can't quit running, but emotionally this time, but when aren't they, kind of?, the CIA is the real asshole here, zac brown band - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23511157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Ameriyeah/pseuds/Captain_Ameriyeah
Summary: Napoleon has to leave. Again.Illya is tired of watching him go.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Song Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691707
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	I Can't Wait 'Til Then

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> I'm really excited for this - it's starting off a long collection I have planned where I write fics (maybe not just TMFU) based on songs, trying to keep them as close to the song as possible. So, if you know of any great songs that tell stories, feel free to drop them in the comments! 
> 
> The song I used here was [Colder Weather](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oouFE51HcqM) by the Zac Brown Band, and I highly recommend you listen to it before, after, or during this fic! They're meant to be enjoyed together. 
> 
> One last note - just to avoid any confusion, in this fic, let's assume "colder weather" is the term that Illya and Napoleon use to describe the CIA to avoid mentioning the organization's name. It makes the song make a little more sense, here.

Illya would have traded Moscow, Russia, _everything_ , for Napoleon. 

If he’d just let him go with him, on whatever bullshit mission the CIA decided to send him on, desperate to hang on to their best asset with threats on sending him to prison if he didn’t comply, despite being an U.N.C.L.E. agent, Illya would have been happy. He could have helped Napoleon close the door on the colder weather, the storms constantly brewing. 

Instead, he closed the door of the New York apartment he shared with the American, and stared out the window and onto the street below. Snowflakes fell, obscuring his vision, mocking him with their promise of biting cold and gloomy days. Illya wondered, for a moment, if he would be enough to make Napoleon stay, let him help, as he watched his partner turn back and face the window. 

He was answered by the turn of Napoleon’s back as he crawled into the nondescript taxicab and the bright tail lights shining through the glass as the taxi drove away. 

Fragments of the argument he’d had with Napoleon mere minutes before flickered through his mind. 

“I want to stay, I want to see you again,” Napoleon had said, eyes tired and posture slumped, “but I’m stuck in colder weather.

“Maybe tomorrow will be better…” he trailed off, but both of the men knew what tomorrow meant. It could mean tomorrow. But it was more likely to mean never, in their line of work. Tomorrow was a promise that couldn’t be kept by _any_ spy, let alone someone like Napoleon Solo. 

“Can I call you then?” 

_Can I call you when it’s over?_ Illya knew is what he really meant. _Can I call you when I’ve finally figured out what I’m really going to do, once and for all?_

But Illya was tired of hearing it. Tired of hearing the excuses for running back to the CIA, tired of Napoleon bailing on him when Illya had never considered the reverse. 

Through his clenched teeth, Illya had managed to grind out, “You’re not ever going to change, Napoleon Solo.” His name had meant to come with barbs, and it clearly hurt, as Napoleon flinched. “I know better, now.” 

The American opened his mouth to protest, but Illya cut him off by crossing his arms in front of his chest and snarling, “It’s in your soul, Cowboy. You were born for leaving.” 

The words hit home and cut deep into Napoleon’s chest. Hurt flashed in both of their eyes, and the darker-haired spy simply grabbed his bags, threw open the door of their apartment, and left Illya in his wake.

The Russian was smart enough (or tired enough) to have stopped wishing for a swift return. The thief inside Napoleon would never truly leave, and what do thieves do?

They run. 

* * *

Napoleon was lost in halfway-forgotten memories, stuck in a miserable little roadside diner in Nebraska, sipping on black coffee despite the late hour. 

The sharp blue-green eyes of the waiter had reminded him of things he desperately wanted to forget, things that he had left behind him. 

They reminded him of New York.

Of home.

Of _Illya_. 

Without a second thought to discourage him, Napoleon was calling Illya’s cell, trying not to let his heart sink further in his chest when the call went straight to voicemail. 

“I miss you, Illya,” he murmured into the phone after the long beep. “I want to see you again, but I’m stuck in colder weather.” 

Even thinking about the CIA made his stomach tighten, not even letting his coffee sit well. 

“Maybe… maybe tomorrow will be better. Can I call you then? God, I hope so.” 

When he hung up, Illya’s last words to him rang in his ears. 

_You were born for leaving._

* * *

Napoleon called again a few days later, those words having been haunting his every waking moment since his last call. The winding roads of the Appalachian mountains stretched ahead of him, and he had never felt more lost in his life - not in the endless forest, but in who he _was._ His mind was reminding him of every time he had left Illya behind. 

“God, Illya,” he started, “I’m just a fucking runner. We just go around and around and around and it’s all my fucking fault.”

It was hard for him to keep the strain out his voice, but he had always been good at lying. At false promises. 

“I love you, but I just keep leaving you because I don’t want to, but I _need_ you, and oh, I want to see you again.” 

He’d said it twice before, but he’d say it again. 

“But I’m stuck in colder weather.” Even to his ears, the words fell flat. 

“Maybe tomorrow will be better. Can I call you then? Because I realize it now. You were right. I am not ever going to change. I was born for leaving.” 

Napoleon brought the phone down from his ear, but his finger paused before he could hang up. It wavered for nearly thirty seconds, until his heart won the argument with his head, and the phone found a place at his ear again.

“Peril-” his voice shook with real emotion this time - “whenever I close my eyes, I see you. No matter where I am.” 

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Sometimes, I almost think I can smell you, driving through these pines, and I can almost convince myself that you’re here, with me.” 

“It’s a shame about the weather,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, still full of emotion, “but I know soon we’ll be together. And I can’t wait ‘til then.” 

He drew the phone from his ear again and actually hung up this time. 

* * *

In New York, Illya listened to Napoleon’s wavering voice, and heard the sincerity in his last sentences. The finality of his last words. And so he whispered them to himself. 

“‘I can’t wait ‘til then.’” 

And he dared to hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> It was written at 4:30 am in a fit of creativity and entirely unbeta-ed, but if anyone is interested in beta-ing for me in the future, please don't hesitate to let me know!


End file.
